


Trip Switch

by Ilostmywho



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Gen, Murder, Prison, angry reunions, space
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-08-22 10:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8283281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilostmywho/pseuds/Ilostmywho
Summary: Rick is in jail after turning himself in. There's a Morty in there with him, but he is nothing like his grandson. As they struggle for footing in the ruthless prison world, there is someone on the outside, trying to get in...





	1. Statements

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the s2 finale. My first fic for the Rick and Morty fandom!

EARTH, DIMENSION M-120

He curled up in the sofa when he'd done it. After having done it, after having washed his hands. The body was still in the kitchen along with the modified gun. The boy stared at his hands and fingers, looking closely for any red remnants under his nails.

He'd been to the federation once before, with Rick of course. The metal hallways abandoned him. He'd gotten lost in the basement, stumbling upon secret meetings and dubious contracts in the making. All kinds of filth, immoral acts. Yet still the conversations were halted as he approached. Not meant for him. Whatever shit they were planning he was still discarded, because he was a Morty. There were two kinds of people in the world; Ricks, and everyone else. A pastel Rick with sunglasses had grabbed his shoulder. “What's this Morty doing here?” He'd looked around. “Is anyone missing theirs?”

The boy's own Rick had come to pick him up eventually. When the scientist's lungs had been filled to the brim with the smoke of home-made cigarettes and his eyes were tired of seeing, he'd remembered his grandson.

“Shit Mort- EURP- Morty, come on, let's go. Enough with the dicking around.”

The cell they'd kept him in was more of a closet, and through the plaster walls he'd been able to hear each clink of the dainty glasses, the endless trampling of feet on the thick hallway carpet. Until that fateful week, the boy hadn't seen another Morty, or another Rick. The Mortys had gathered among themselves, like packs of rats huddling together for warmth. Comparing notes. Some Mortys had nice clothes, soft to the touch. Well-polished shoes. A sea of yellow sweaters. They, as a concept, idea, clearly had an affinity for yellow. The color of the sun. There was a Morty with utensils stuck to his hands. No one asked him about it. One after another new Mortys were dropped off. This was life, rolling into a finish. Wrapping up. And the Mortys were left to their own devices. A Morty was a Morty simply because he wasn't a Rick. Because he wasn't like them. Because he cared, because he had a heart, he had to be embarrassed. A lower tier in a world that was ultimately casteless. Rick made it that way.

The boy's Rick drank. He had to wade through bottles to get to the bed. During one of their travels, Beth had found someone new. They were living in Canada. Morty, choosing to stay, struggled to pick up the pieces that was left of his dad.

When his mom left, teary-eyed, holding him so tight, she'd begged him to come with. “There's still room in the car, it's not too late to change your mind.”

Morty shook his head. “I-I, it'll be alright. Plus, I think dad needs someone to look out for him.”

Two years ago. Beth called a lot, worrying. Her concern felt jaded. Muted. Mauled. Hadn't a real parent, a parent that loved their child, hadn't they stayed?

Rick had reverberated into his old self. Distant mocking. An uncaring drunkard. The family was split, Summer had chosen to go with Beth. What remained was three unfortunate generations living under the same roof.

Earlier that morning Jerry had stumbled to his car, not noticing that his socks were two different colors, or that he had a ketchup stain on his shirt. Morty didn't mention it. Rick wasn't home.

Morty waited for him, perched on the stairs to the upper floor, the quantum shotgun stashed in his lap. It was Rick's gun. He was the one who'd taught Morty how to use it on one of their adventures, in a back alley somewhere in the Horse shoe nebula. It left gruesome marks but then again, so did Rick. If Rick hadn't shown up, his parents probably still would have been arguing and yelling at each other in the same room. His home would have been his home and not just a place to put his bed.

At last, the green portal opened in the kitchen and Rick stepped out. From the sounds of it he rummaged around in the fridge. When he stepped out into the hallway Morty raised the gun, activating it by pressing his finger on the trigger. It whirred, shining blue.

The scientist almost dropped his drink. They laid eyes on each other. “You scared me, M-Morty.” Through the evidence suggested Rick hadn't been scared a single fucking day of his life.

Morty stood up, the cool black gun still in his steady hand.

Cocking his head to the side, Rick squinted. “I suspected as much, you little shit.”

Morty clicked the safety off.

Rick took a step backwards. “I noticed the platinum shell casings were gone. Thought y-you were gonna - EURP- gonna shoot some squirrels or whatever.” He stepped backwards, Morty followed, matching him step by step. They were in the kitchen because Rick had led them there.

The scientist put his beer on the counter by the sink, then put his hands up. “Either shoot me or get th-that thing out of my face, Morty.”

Rick lunged for the cupboard and the sudden motion was an excuse to pull the trigger. Light, blaring bright, filled the kitchen. A millisecond later came the sound blast, a showmanship of murderous proportions. The gun gulped in Morty's hands, pushing him backwards.

Rick was on the floor, missing the top of his right shoulder. The left arm was in the opened kitchen cupboard, reaching for the gun that was duct taped to the wall. Blood had sprayed the cabinets, leaking over the floor, soaking through the dirty lab coat.

Morty dropped the gun, went to the sofa. Where to now?

* * *

EARTH, DIMENSION C-137

“Morty, sweetie, it's time for school.” Beth was leaning in through the door opening, letting in a scratch of light on the carpet.

Morty was in his bed, curled up under the covers. A disgusting pile of boy, sweat, a dread that clung to the sheets. “I'm not going.”

Beth sighed. “You have to go to school-”

It was a shitty world.

It was a shitty world without him.

“Leave me alone.” 

-

The fans hummed above them, breathing air into their lungs that was fit for consumption.

“Six times nine?”

Blotches, in the ceiling. Tired gray squares. At some time there had been moist, perhaps a leak in the floor above.

“Anyone?”

The bell rang for lunch. Morty gathered up his things. He sat down at a table in the middle of the cafeteria, an unassuming corner of an unassuming room.

People, all around him, continuing to live and joke around, unaware that something precious had been taken. A blue-haired idiot had turned himself in. A genius scientist had turned himself in, had run out of ideas, of hope. That was the only solution. That he'd given up. Rick could solve everything. His grandfather, despite being more alcohol than man, could work things out. He could build a sun out of a black hole, he tinkered with neural scanners at the breakfast table, he could fix a satellite with stuff out of a shed. This, he hadn't even bothered with. He hadn't bothered with them. Rick hadn't bothered with him. If someone had asked Morty before, then he would have said that yes, his grandfather loved him. As improbable as it sounded. He would have said “yes”. Now though...

There was a gap in their home, a blank space that leaked silence, that kept on leaving gross reminders everywhere it went, everywhere it followed him.

Morty blinked hard. He blinked down on his apple pie and milk carton. The yellow plastic tray.

He had the heart of a dog.

Faithful. Loyal.

Defending Rick's name in the sporadic arguments that even now tended to blossom up between his parents regarding their roommate that had screwed over the entire earth. The worst thing wasn't the loss. It wasn't the bone-cracking realization that their adventures had come to an end. The worst part wasn't how every bite of food tasted like cardboard. The worst part wasn't the beating of his own fickle heart that kept beating despite that he wished it hadn't, because it hurt. The worst part was how the world continued on. How his family moved on, how the loss was covered up with music, wine, and work, respectively. The worst part was how they lived on. Reality strutted on, irregardless of disgusted it made him. The days shrugged, got on their bike, and pedaled off. They passed. Hours, minutes, streaming weeks. Time passed, and Rick was gone.

-

Six months had passed. Beth's breathing had hitched as she'd checked the calendar.

“Half a year-” she managed before clearing her throat, continuing on cheerfully smiling, talking through her teeth, “Morty, did you pack your shorts? I put them on your chair.”

Six months.

They had P.E. first thing in the morning, 9 am. Warm up, then dodge ball. He ducked lightly, his heart hardly in the game.

“Fucking hell, Morty, are you even trying-”

Next chance he got, Morty slung the red ball hard in the direction of his latest bully. It hit him in the head. “You're fucking dead, fucking nerd-”

Six months.

With a bit of planning he managed to avoid Steven until lunch, then until the bell rang a final time. He hurried home, taking the long way around the school yard, behind the bleachers and the gym.

Six months. Was this his life now? Avoiding bullies, sleeping through geography, striking out in baseball, all while staring up at the blue sky. Was this what life was supposed to be?

The house was silent, drained. He put his bag by the door. Summer was in school. Mom at work. Dad at work. Morty remained by the door.

This was life.

This was life, as it turned out for him.

Life. Either this or nothing.

He went into the kitchen, got out the notepad, sitting down by the table and putting the pen to the paper.

_I'm going to find Rick_

As he wrote it down, he nodded. Reasonable. Perhaps he should provide some kind of explanation.

_He would do the same thing for us_

Looking at his scribbles, he crossed it out. No point in lying.

~~_He would do the same thing for us_ ~~

_I'm sorry for worrying you_

Crossed it out.

_I'm sorry for leaving like this_

Crossed it out.

_I'm sorry_

* * *

 PEGASI INTERSTELLAR PRISON

Rick spat out a tooth, blood dribbling from his lips. “You-” He wiped off his mouth with a soggy sleeve. “You punch like a fucking Oort cloud.” With a groan he got up, holding his right side.

Guards had already gathered around them, dispersing the spectators from a safe distance, their automatic rifles doing all the heavy work.

“Again, Sanchez?” The guard closest to him frowned. “Get on your knees.”

The ugly, green puffy alien across from him licked his teeth. “Yeah Sanchez, get on your knees.” It had horns sticking out from his head, and carbon black eyes.

Rick huffed. “I thought that was your mom's job.” Another punch to the jaw, either from the guard or inmate 20-4B, and he was floored.

He awoke in the darkness. There was a slightly lighter part near the floor where a tiny bit of light trickled in from underneath the door. Cautiously touching his face, he stroked the swelling that made it difficult to close his right eye. There might be some blood in it as well. He felt his way to the ratty bed, and the stone bricks underneath it. His fingers traveled along the uneven surface, looking for the right indentation. As he found it he started digging, occasionally sweeping away small piles of dirt and dust. A brick came loose. Patting behind it, he found the metallic object. 

-

His trial had been a poorly constructed excuse for throwing him in jail. No defense attorney, no jury, no nothing.

A judge that looked half salami, half snail, had delivered his sentence. Every time he'd moved there had been a slight puff of powder that circulated away in the crowded, oxygen-starved room. “The court has made a decision. The defendant, Rick Sanchez of Earth, dimension C-137, is found guilty on all charges. He is hereby sentenced to 141 790 years in prison.”

It was fairly evident that inmate Rick Sanchez wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

 

PASSENGER SHUTTLE EZEKIEL

Interstellar winds pushed against the windows, millions of molecules swept against his eyes. There was a crushing of his body as the main engines kicked in.

G-forces.

Needed to breathe.

Couldn't.

His eyes teared up as he fought to gasp.

And then. Bliss.

The shuttle had reached that crucial point where it could escape the earth's gravity field. Two-hundred passengers, compliant as one, participated in the casual jail-break. Together they shrugged out of the chains of the earth. Some were going home, ending a vacation, carrying small replicas of the statue of liberty, while others still were businessmen, asking the stewards for their third cup of coffee. With a snap of their wrists they unfolded fresh editions of The Milky Way Morning News. “Now in English!” it read under the title.

Morty tried pushing his seat back and was rewarded with a sharp kick to his back. The screen attached to the seat in front of him changed its image from a picture of earth to a blue information screen.

_Estimated duration of flight: 11hrs 40 minutes_

_Current weather on Gliese 876 b: cloudless_

Morty put his right hand on the bag, his mom's huge hiking bag. It was bulky and bore the typical 90's mark of blue and purple colors. His shoulders ached from having carried it to the station. Red marks had formed in his skin. The weight ate on him.

An alarm started ringing and he sat up, looking around. He swallowed, grabbing a tighter hold on the backpack. There hadn't been any age limits on purchasing a ticket, but who knew what kind of age restrictions there were in space? A stewardess hurried in his direction, running as fast as she could in the narrow space between the seats. Morty's face turned red. Anguish burned on his cheeks, at the corner of his eyes. Any second now, she'd grab a hold of his arm and whisk him back to Earth.

She was in her thirties, looking stern.

She came to his seat.

Continued past.

He took a deep breath.

It took another couple of seconds for her to reach her destination. “Sir! You cannot smoke in here.”


	2. Lone Digger

PEGASI INTERSTELLAR PRISON

Having poked at the jello dish a disconcerting number of times without taking a bite, Rick put the plastic fork down.

“Groo na-ga?” The inmate across from him asked. His big, wet eyes seemed pleading.

Sanchez pushed it across the table.

While smiling and showing all of his pointy, yellow teeth, the alien scraped the jello down on his own plate. His six legs rattled in anticipation.

Rick wasn't the only human in the space prison, but he was the only Rick there. The others had avoided it. Looking at the outcomes, decisions, he was an oddity. Most of them, not to say all, had done dreadful things but he was the only one imprisoned. Judged. He knew of two Ricks who were actual judges and yet consistently criminal.

Days turned into a sludge. Time was being flushed down the drain at an alarming pace. Two months. Five. Late nights as he struggled to fall asleep, he'd regard the lines on the wall. A tally of days that had passed. Had he carved a line into the wall this morning? Had he really done it? How many days had he missed?

-

The hair.

Rick had sat down next to Fyon to enjoy the steam-cooked protein porridge, with his spoon halfway to his unshaven face.

The hair.

Four tables off to the left. A figure sat alone on the corner, his back turned to Rick.

Hair just like...

The same color.

Beside the other, considerably larger, inmates the form seemed almost half their size. A slender arm seemed intent on devouring the porridge in as few bites as possible. Rick's Morty had never wolfed down his food like that.

His Morty wouldn't.

One spoonful at a time, Rick finished his lunch.

* * *

 

GLIESE 876 B

“Please look around you to make sure you do not forget anything on the shuttle. Due to the high amount of passengers, reclaiming any belongings-”

Morty pulled the bag up higher, glancing around on his seat. It was a struggle to straighten out his legs from the long journey.

The inside of the plane had been thoroughly tempered and as he walked out of the ship, there was a slight gap between the metal plates and the elevator down, and he breathed his first tuft of Gliesian air. He wound up squished between an old man with thick glasses, hair growing on his nose, and a sibling pair toting backpacks almost as large as themselves. One of the creatures knocked on the elevator's glass window, pointing out at the vast mountains. Their parents looked as well, cooing.

A small town festered on the planet's surface, its buildings were a bit sunken down. The earth kept chewing on their heels. Sand insistently wafted in over the licorice tarmac to the dismay of a sweeping, sweating alien. Morty stopped, sitting down on a bench outside in the sunlight. The other people from the shuttle disbanded. They got on other shuttles or checked in at one of the luxurious hotels that stood, blazing, in the dry midday heat. He pulled out his phone from the small pocket on the top of the bag. Still turned off from the flight. There would be a bunch of missed calls, messages, his family pleading in the voice mail. He tossed it into the bin next to him. Would they have called the police on him? The government? Was the galactic government involved? Was there a blip with his name on it on a screen somewhere?

Scraping his feet against the asphalt, he dusted off his pants. Next step in his tentative plan was to find the spaceship. The ship offered safety, an invisibility cloak borne out of his grandfather's terse expectations.

Morty hadn't done any research., not even a quick search online. Where did the space police take the things they'd seized? Burying his head in his hands, he then grimaced in the dark. For each second that passed, he buried himself deeper. Soon not just missing but a fugitive. Accomplice even. Beth and Jerry would be worried sick by now.

He rubbed at his forehead, as if the painful massage would bring forward a clue, a flashing arrow. A place to start. A lifetime of failures sat on his shoulders, a veritably endless line of misery he'd caused his parents. There was a paper in his closet saying that he wasn't smart. Not smart like Rick, or savvy like Summer. He struggled with logic, unlike his mother. His dad probably had some good qualities too, which Morty hadn't inherited either. Whatever plan he'd come up with, it wouldn't be a clever plan. He'd just have to settle for a dumb one.

He looked up at the sky, a purple backdrop split in half by an almost white sun. Its rays stretched over the heaven like a pendant.

Morty had seen a sun just like it. Almost a year ago. They'd been on a planet filled with factories, selling a newly constructed thermal lance to the highest bidder. “Watch out for these guys, M-Morty,” Rick had said, patting the gun through the coat to see that it was still there. “They'll steal anything that's not bolted to the floor.” There was a crackling from between two houses, the rattles of a fire. “Plus, they eat strangers.” Morty hurried up, glancing at Rick's arm, as if to grab a hold of it. “Don't worry, not- EURRP- not us, obviously. Me and him go way back.”

Still on the bench, Morty had once again buried his face in his hands. What was the name of that place? That planet?

Gasping from the insight, he grabbed his backpack and ran to the desk by the terminal.

“I'd like, um, a ticket. Please.”

* * *

 

PEGASI INTERSTELLAR PRISON

Morty looked up from his book, nodding at the man who'd just put a glass of water on his table.

The brutish man wrung his calloused hands. “Anything else?”

The boy shook his head. “No.” He waved his hand.

Once again, alone in his corner. With his back against the wall he could see the entire room, the few tables and chairs. Farther away, two men were playing cards. Even farther, by the door, the rest of the inmates who were on break. They chattered, discussed, arguing even. When they had an errand to the library they took a long detour to avoid his table.

Morty moved his chair back to be able to lean against the wall when writing. The charred copy of his notebook was missing a few pages where the glue had given up. He quickly tapped the pencil against the pages, while biting on the inside of his cheeks. The weapon he'd invented were short a few vital pieces. He knew what should be there, but not how to get them. Any sort of gun powder would be a problem. Scaling it back, then. A normal blade would be an easy match for the combat shotguns the guards were towing around. He needed some kind of breaching ammunition for the doors. The actual guards would be the easiest parts. Few beings, aliens or people, thought badly of him. He was just a kid. A child who'd gotten lost in the big, wide world, with no one to help. Thankfully, Morty had never been adverse to helping himself.

He was violent when there were no witnesses, when there weren't any cameras or inmates. Frail-looking as he was, there was a specific subsection of malice made for people like him. They'd tried, once. He'd walked out of the closet unharmed apart from the deep cut to his palm from a shard of glass. He was the only one who'd walked out.

In some ways, prison was easier to deal with than his former life. People in here were disgusting, filthy creatures, but they were straight-forward with it. It allowed him to be too.

After having done what he did to his Rick, he set about finding more of him. More Ricks to decimate, more Mortys to set free. The Ricks were a malice, an unlawful banding together of men that happened to be more intelligent than the average Joe. Nothing separated them from other men apart from their brain and the inherent laziness that came because of it. His second project had been a businessman. A scientist turned “entrepreneur”. He'd sold his soul following the money, following the dreams of the rich and the ideals of the depraved. Killing him had felt good, as if awash in clear water rather than body parts. The seconds after Morty had dropped his blunt tool there had been an engulfing release, a tremendous pressure was taken off of him. He breathed, feeling the hairs on his arms stand on end. And it was he who had done it. He'd painted the room, changing the world. One less speck of dirt.

The following months the Ricks had accidents. Their numbers ever so slowly dwindled. And he, a mere Morty, was the one to bring it about. Every then and now he left messages, an eye or a head stuck atop a nearby landmark, as a hello to whichever investigator would find it. In the beginning, the council didn't know what to make of it. Morty devoured every piece of information he could get his hands on regarding the cases. He fished out newspapers from bins, and he stopped to listen to the news-broadcasts being belched out from the giant screens close to Alpha Centauri. Seven months eloped where he kept on creating bodies out of men. Backtracking evolution, to rid it of mistakes. He didn't like killing Mortys and always tried to avoid it. There was something eerie about watching his own face fall, watching his knees buckle. He'd only killed two of them, two of him, and both of them had been fiercely loyal to their Ricks. They'd flung themselves in front of a bullet and a knife, respectively. Two of him. Dead by his hand. No doubt they would be buried next to their Ricks, graves borne out of misplaced loyalty. There was no telling what the Ricks had done to evoke such loyalty in him, but surely it wasn't good. The scientists, gray-haired and dribbling, weren't capable of good. They weren't capable of unselfish actions.

When the Ricks did catch him it was by mistake. A patrol had been sent out to check on a council member who'd failed to show up to his weekly poker game, and when they caught Morty they thought he'd been stealing from his Rick. Even when they took his picture and ran it against the rare, blurry photos from security cameras and the likes, even then they could barely believe it. That a Morty could do that to a Rick.

They decided to set an example. And they imagined that the Pegasi super-max would do just that.

There he was, perched atop the light metallic chair, overlooking his domain. The council had reverberated with the implications of his crimes. Even for a second, they considered their mortality. Morty smiled, jotted down a new thought. Even now, there was probably a few Ricks out there fearing for their life.

Good practice for them.

* * *

 

J1407B

Morty lugged his backpack off of the glass shuttle, nearly stepping in a shining metallic puddle with his shoe. He'd given the angry driver a slew of bills, unsure of how much the fare was. With a low whirring the vehicle took off, leaving him alone in the abandoned station building. His steps echoed over the floors as he made his way past the train tracks. Crumpled papers, rusting chairs in long rows. The ceiling was high, dark-looking. None of the lights were on and he squinted as he made his way past the obstacles. The heat soon made his shirt cling to him. He wiped at his forehead with a sleeve. As he finally made his way outside, he was met with an empty street. The only light, perched high up on one of the old buildings, was flickering. His breaths racked his body. His heartbeat seemed set on a fast-paced tempo. Out of every unlit corner he could see the possibility for a massacre, a swift dismantling of his form. He had to turn his back to a few of them as he took a left up on the nearest street which looked to be the least frightening. Farther away there was at least one functional street light, which was a win in his book. He pulled on the straps of the backpack and walked for a bit. Into the mystery that was someone's ordinary. He squinted at the sky. That cathedral-looking thing on the hill, had he seen that before? It had been above and slightly to the left of the shop he was looking for.

The houses all lacked windows. The few windows there were had been boarded up, to keep the outside world from getting in. Somewhere, a door was slammed and the sound echoed through-out. Morty jumped, straining to see where it had come from. There were people here after all. From one of the more run-down houses there came a stench of char, of poisoned coal, liquid tarmac. He coughed, walking faster. Morty's insides quivered as another bang came from a house behind him. Aiming for a side-street, he ran across the uneven ground. Some sort of vehicle drove past him, letting out a gust of black exhausts. After taking a deep breath, he pushed on into the back alleys and streets. A cat-like creature regarded him from an open doorway, blinking at him with its green eyes.

“H-hey kitty,” he offered, and was met with a deep growl. “Oh, oh no-,” and he hurried on, afraid to look back.

The narrow alleys were covered in some sort of soot and his shoes quickly stained. At first he tried to avoid touching the walls but he slipped and reached out on reflex, dirtying his hands as well. “Jeez,” he muttered. “What a life,” he added as an afterthought.

It was a ragged life. A shitty, pointless short life and he was irrevocably lost and he was stuck with desperate tears springing out of his eyes and he angrily wiped at them, getting soot all over his scowling face. His backpack weighed tons and he leaned against the wall for support. Wiping once again any tears who didn't get the message, he then set off, gritting his teeth and crying. He started laughing because if Rick would have seen him now, he surely would have drunk himself to death. He laughed and he cried and he somehow managed to get up another set of stairs. At the top of them, there was a small square with a mossy fountain in the middle. Hiking his obnoxious backpack up higher, he set off to the houses on the other side. Somewhere around here, right by the fountain, with the sign, where was it, electric cables hung out of every window, making it hard to see.

There it was. A blue door. Its paint was flaking off here and there, especially around the dirty golden handle. Above him, a small black sign with foreign letters. He knocked hard on the door. Time passed. Gusts of wind rapped against him. He shivered, knocking again, harder this time. He heard some kind of growl on the other side.

Morty cleared his throat. “H-hello?”

 


	3. Capricious

J1407B

An angry-looking alien looked back at him. Four black eyes blinked in unison atop its forehead. Some sort of grunt was heard.

Assuming it was a greeting, Morty continued. "Uhm, h-hi. I need to f-find a-... a thing. Or, I mean, I-I need help finding it-"

The alien cocked its head to the side, making its blue hair fall to one side. A moment passed, wherein the creature swung its twitching tail in an erratic sweeping of the floor. Leaving the door open, it then went back into the room.

Hesitantly, Morty stepped in after it. He shielded his eyes from the blinding overhead lights, getting even more dirt on his face in the process. The alien rummaged around in a few boxes by the wall before nodding its head triumphantly. It went back to Morty, holding out a small, green box, reminiscent of a tape recorder.

“I-I don't get what I'm supposed to, um,” Morty said, rubbing at his elbow with his other hand.

Clicking a few buttons on the top of the machine, the creature then nodded. It said something else, still holding it out. “What do you want?” it came from the small device.

“I'm l-looking for a ship,” he said, swallowing down the excess nervousness to keep it from jumbling his words.

“A ship?” the device inquired, its English stiff and polished.

“A-a spaceship. It's been seized by the police...”

The alien leaned back against a table, making its contents rattle. It crossed its arms. Having regarded Morty for a minute, it smiled, putting on a sinister show. All of its teeth were sharp, carved out points. “Who sent you?” the alien asked through the machine.

“M-my grandpa, I suppose.” Morty stopped then. Saying his name would either help, or... “Rick Sanchez.”

The smile got broader. There was something stuck in its teeth, a small dot of something dark. Probably whatever had had the misfortune of becoming lunch. “I remember you now. You helped him deliver a thermal lance.”

“Yes,” Morty nodded.

The creature nodded once, conclusively. “I will help you. But only because I owe Rick a favor.”

“I-... oh.” Morty said, furrowing his eyebrows slightly.

“It was a pretty big favor,” the alien explained. It did look slightly green. Having closed the door, it introduced itself, “I'm Lapis,” and gestured for Morty to follow him into the next room.

They went down a short set of stairs and through a locked door. “Here's the real store,” Lapis said.

Metal shelves reaching all the way up to the ceiling, containing thousands of items. It was like Rick's garage but on a much bigger level. On the shelf closest to Morty there was a snow-white Plumbus.

Lapis caught him eyeing it. “No touching,” he remarked.

Morty held his hands up in a gesture of compliance. Instead, he looked around at the other things. Vials, guns, more than he could count, different kinds of boxes. Everything smelled of grease and metal, sweat and closed-up air. “If you're done staring at my stuff, I'd like to get this over with.”

“O-oh, sorry,” Morty said, tearing his eyes away from an illustrious pink orb, hanging unsupported in the air in the middle of an aisle.

Lapis went to his desk, clearing off some of the debris, including a hefty piece of corrugated steel, and nodded at the chair who appeared. “Sit.”

Awkwardly aware of every one of his limbs, Morty took his backpack off and sat down.

The alien rummaged around at his desk, going through different kinds of containers, all with liquid in them. Eventually he came up with a dirty, oil-stained cup and a bottle with something white in it. Noticing Morty's hesitation, he frowned. “Don't be rude.”

With a shaking hand Morty reached for his cup. Lapis drank straight out of the bottle.

Taking a deep breath, Morty then sipped at his drink. It tasted faintly of coconut, but nothing else. He hadn't had anything to drink for the entire day, and seeing how it didn't smell or even taste like alcohol, he had some more.

Lapis sat down behind the desk, leaning back in the chair until it creaked. He put the translator device on his shoulder with a clip of some kind. “Sorry to hear about Rick.” The alien nodded. “I'd been looking forward to doing some more business with him.”

“Y-yeah,” Morty stammered. “It's him-, I mean, it's his ship I'm looking for.”

Lapis sat up straighter. “You're looking for his ship?”

Nodding weakly, Morty continued. “I-I know it's crazy, b-but...”

The alien got up. “I'm gonna need another bottle.” With Lapis now turned away from him, the boy tried explaining. “I'm g-guessing the ship was, was seized or whatever when he, um, when he was caught.”

Lapis sat back down, a new white bottle in his lap. “Probably. I mean, they won't understand half of what it does, but I'm guessing they're picking it apart as we speak.”

Morty winced.

The creature smiled. “Don't worry, your grandpa is a paranoid bastard. He'll have some protection in place. … Hopefully.” Serious again, he leaned forward. “You know he turned himself in, right?”

Morty blinked. There it was. The truth. The ugly, slithering truth. It had made its way across the galaxies. He nodded once, weakly, looking down onto his dirty shoes and the concrete floor. “Yes.”

“And you're still going off to find his ship?”

Nodding.

“I'm guessing you don't have a plan for getting it out of police custody?”

Morty shook his head.

“You want me to help you break into the central police storage for it?”

Hesitant nod.

The alien furrowed both of his foreheads. “You made your way all the way here without a single shred of a plan beyond asking me for help?”

Wincing again, Morty spoke up, “W-well, I'm still working on it...”

“I hate to say this, but your plan might just be retarded enough to work.”

“H-huh?”

“I'll help you. I mean it'll cost you, but I know Rick's good for it.”

“I-I brought some money,” Morty started, reaching for his bag.

“Even if that thing is crammed full of it, it still won't even cover half.”

Morty's face grew red, “I'm n-not sure R-Rick has that much money...”

Lapis laughed, “It's not just money I want. He is in possession of a thing I want, and if I do this thing for him, he won't have any choice but to trade me for it. Especially if it's his brave grandson who's asking.”

“Oh,” was all that Morty managed. It seemed like the payment had been accepted. Whatever it was.

* * *

 

PEGASI INTERSTELLAR PRISON

During one of the rare breaks they got from the inane prison work, Rick sought out Draugr. The massive purple alien was talking to his crew, all rogue-looking, swelling barbarians.

“Draugr,” Rick said, making the assembled crowd quiet in a menacing way.

The creature turned around, crossing its arms over its massive chest. “Rick Sanchez. What an honor,” it added sarcastically. “Have you come to apologize for ripping me off, perhaps?”

“... Sure.” Rick cleared his throat. “I'm sorry.”

Draugr blinked lazily. “Still a prominent liar, I see.”

Feeling the pressure from the ticking clock, Rick pressed on. “I need information.”

Mockingly pouting, Draugr cooed, “Prison life not treating you well, Rick? Feeling a bit home-sick?”

Rolling his eyes, Rick groaned. “I could give two shits about my family. The person I'm interested in is in this building.”

Draugr cocked an eyebrow. “Who is it?”

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Rick lowered his voice. “Morty Smith.”

-

The days dragged by. He hadn't heard anything from Draugr or any of his puppets. Angrily Rick ate his porridge, hastily enough for it to spill on his shirt breast, earning him an a stern lecture from the superintendent. Each day was mundane, a sick dawdle of hours and minutes. Breakfast (watery goo), then work – numbing, repetitive, mindless, aggravating – and then lunch (porridge), and then work again, or every ten days a free afternoon that was spent in his cell or in the library. Dinner (leftover goo), and if someone would have decided to poison him, it would have been a relief. Perhaps the real punishment wasn't the containment but the aggressive way they bored the prisoners to death. The only thing keeping him relatively sane was the hollow under the bed in the isolation cell. The isolation ward was the part of the building with the thinnest walls. If only he could manage to create some sort of hole or weakening of the structure, then he'd be home free. There was of course the issue with the outside air that was an unwelcoming vacuum. Not to mention the cold, which was of the 'electric torture in the balls' kind of deal. Whatever, he'd solve those issues later. One mountain a day, or whatever the saying was.

He saw the other Morty each day in the cafeteria, his small shape a slap in the face. Why on earth would they place a Morty in a super-max? If his own Morty was anything to go on, he was probably guilty of downloading too much porn, breaking the Internet across the Earth. It bugged him, honestly.

Morty.

In prison.

Not his own Morty, obviously, but one just like him. The same DNA, the same biological strands. The same parts, only rearranged.

Rick had never seen this Morty smile. His own Morty smiled every now and then, laughed even. He chuckled and he groaned and he complained and he gave in and he took charge and he accidentally stepped on Rick when he'd fallen asleep on the floor. In comparison to the cafeteria-Morty, his own Morty seemed like an explosion of ideas and momentum.

Thoughts of the Smiths clouded his days. The appearance of another Morty had opened the floodgates which he'd previously managed to keep shut.

It had been easier to stay away before, back when he didn't know them. He knew Beth of course, and knew of Jerry, had seen the kids a couple of times. It was easier then, to stay away. Simpler to justify. He led a dangerous life with lots of enemies, and staying away assured their protection. He had a bull's eye on his forehead, a massive bell tolled whenever he moved around. People wanted him dead, or at least dead enough to squeeze him on information. Never showing up was a small price to pay to ensure their safety.

And then, in the shaky aftermath of a particularly liver-challenging binge, he wound up outside the house. It was a Wednesday morning, a bit after seven. He wasn't sure of how he'd managed to even get to the front door but he rung the bell nonetheless. The delighted cries of Beth quickly smothered any reservations he might have had. She treated him well, and it stung in him because he was so clearly undeserving of her care, of her admiration and respect. He'd walked out, like the archetype of a pained genius, except he didn't leave because he was smothered by his family, he'd simply gotten tired of Beth's mother nagging at him to leave the flask alone. If he wasn't an alcoholic before, that certainly eased him into it. He left to be free to drink, to be free to go to Carora for a month without asking for permission to leave (not to mention to get permission to come home). But in this house, this yellow box of mortgages and a marriage in crisis, he was welcomed in.

He stayed for a few days, trying to compel himself to leave. Morty and Summer tentatively allowed him in, unsure of who this old man was. They'd only seen him a handful of times before, always drunk, almost always arguing with Jerry. He still was, but not as much as before. Breakfast stood on the table by seven at the latest and he sat down, enjoying a home-cooked meal. Pancakes or eggs or just toast or whatever. The point was that someone had made it. Beth had stood by the stove, thinking about him, and cooking him food. A warm feeling spread through his stomach every morning. Someone had thought of him. Someone had decided that he was worth maintaining, providing sustenance.

After a week he'd been allowed to move in. “Do you wanna live with us, dad?” Beth had asked, and Jerry had almost choked on his breakfast. They gave him the garage despite Jerry's fruitless protests and Rick had gleefully packed up some shit he'd brought back from storage. It was a pitiful, incoherent family but it was his family, his breakfast table, he started to make sense of the arguments and private jokes.

He fixed some stuff, like the crappy TV-antenna and the leaking kitchen sink. “This -EUURRP- this is a gasket, Jerry, you use it to seal things that leak.”

“Yes, yes, I get it,” his son-in-law muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I'm not an idiot, you know.” To which Rick kindly enough said nothing.

He'd had all of this, and he'd lost it. Birdperson got married and got roughly two minutes of happiness until the real world shoved its ugly mug. Shit wedding, which he hadn't even wanted to attend, and if he hadn't done it he might have been able to save the family and wouldn't even be here in the first place. Given time, he would have figured out a way around the federation's laws and restrictions. He'd done it a hundred times before.

He allowed himself another minute of misery before getting up from his chair, heading to work.

* * *

 

PEGASI INTERSTELLAR PRISON

Pretending like he didn't see Rick virtually staring at him from across the dining hall, Morty got started on his supper. This Rick obviously had issues. Real big, seek-help issues.

The fact was that this version was hopelessly demented, obviously, since he'd given himself up, no matter what the phony called-in message from “Jerry” had said. A Rick that didn't know he was a Rick. It was bad enough when the Ricks were themselves. Hard to imagine that this one would be any better, demented or not.

Morty touched the notebook in his pants pocket. It was his lifeline, his way out of here. In it he'd create a way out, away from the barren halls and the ridiculous routines. The notebook and his brain were the two things holding him together, a ledge to nudge his fingers in, to keep him climbing higher. He was on his way.

In the work room, although strictly supervised, Morty continued crafting plans, adding bits and pieces of knowledge. The guard closest to him smelled of k-lax. Leverage. The guard must have smoked some during the break. Or perhaps he wore it as a skin patch, for slower distribution. He could be dealt with, or even bypassed entirely. In the work room there were things that could be used for breathing on the outside. A glass container could be remodeled into a makeshift space helmet, the sturdy fabric could be turned into a space-suit with some work.

It was doable. And he had time.

 


	4. Setting Fires

J1407B

Lapis unfolded a map. “This is the base, the center for the federation's goods. Everything they want to keep for themselves they put here. I hope this is where they keep his ship.” The alien shrugged. “If they don't, we're basically done for.”

Morty was quiet, abashed. He might be sending them out on a wild goose chase. All in vain.

“We're taking my ship there, but you're gonna have to drive Rick's ship when we get it.” The alien grimaced. “You know how to drive it, don't you?”

Nodding quickly, Morty then cleared his throat. “Yeah.” Although sometimes he spent more time upside-down than right-side up and he usually managed to snag the windshield-wiper when he was meant to indicate. He sighed again, feeling an endless weight press on his shoulders.

“You look... what's the word I'm looking for-,” Lapis scratched his head. “Tired?”

Morty's eyelids grew heavier despite his indignant attempts at rubbing them.

“I don't have a bed but I have some blankets if you want to sleep some.”

“Y-yes, thanks,” Morty mumbled, then yawned. He felt sluggish, almost drugged, but then again Lapis had drunk from the same bottle. The boy slung the offensively heavy backpack over his shoulders, staggering a bit before straightening up. He was shown a pile of blankets, most of them damp and oil-stained. He dropped his bag right beside the blankets and then crawled underneath the top one. Morty put one hand on the top of the backpack and then he slept.

* * *

 

PEGASI INTERSTELLAR PRISON

During one of their scheduled but often overlooked breaks Rick was approached by one of Draugr's men, a snake-looking underling with muscles on top of his muscles. “He wants to see you,” he snarled, twitching his head to the left, indicating Rick should follow him. They went to the other side of the yard, the one with a pitiful tree growing sideways.

“Rick,” Draugr said. “I have the information.”

Rick nodded. “W-what do you want?” Prison rules were simple. No such thing as a free lunch.

Draugr invited him to sit next to him on the bench. He waved his subordinates away. When the last one had left the area, he spoke up. “I'm in the mood for a blackout.”

Rick looked away, studying the pitiful flowers that were constantly being stepped on by the people playing by the Martian basketball hoop. “Yeah? What kind?”

“The kind where I don't have to worry about security cameras or the locks to the cells.”

Rick stretched his legs a bit, humming in agreement. The pale white skin of his ankles stood out against his worn black workshop-issued shoes. The mere thought of some kind of job made his brain pick up the pace, shifting gears. “I'll need to see the-, the wiring.”

Draugr nodded. “Can do.”

“And some tools.”

Draugr nodded, smiling. “Just say the word.” Draugr had been sentenced to almost as many years Rick, maybe a few decades shorter at most. His wrap sheet was a light year long but in spite of that he might have never gotten caught if it wasn't for the fact that he'd made some powerful enemies. He didn't seem to suffer on the inside of the walls. Rather, he was thriving. He was a calloused, calculating spider in the galaxy's most criminal web. His subordinates reported everything back to him and his outside sources seemed to supply him with whatever.

“Who's running the business on the outside?” Rick asked.

“My son,” the alien replied, smiling proudly. “I've trained him well.”

“Huh.” Rick couldn't see Beth taking over his business. No doubt she'd be just as effective running all the kinds of supplies that Rick were, but she wasn't callous enough. She'd inherited her mother's calm, sturdy demeanor. She was unswayed by trends, by people's ideas of progress. Beth soldiered on. Rick cleared his throat. “Wh-when do you want it?”

Looking up at the suns, Draugr squinted but then shielded his eyes. “Two weeks.”

“Not long enough.”

Shaking his head, Draugr looked back at Rick. “Two weeks. Sooner rather than later.” Seeing Rick's tense face, he spoke again. “Either you do this or you'll die of old age still not knowing what your illustrious minion has been up to.”

Rick scoffed. “Y-you say that like he's got any guts worth mentioning.”

Draugr got up. “You'd be surprised.”

Rick got up as well. “I'll need to see the set up to know which of the-, what tools I need.”

“I'll get you a pic,” Draugr said, then left.

A day later Rick found a blurry photograph under his pillow. It was hard to judge the scale of it but it seemed to be a Gen 5 power plant, connected to a UPS the size of a house. This meant that unless an asteroid were to hit them, it would keep on providing power to the doors and locks. His vague hope of short-circuiting the whole thing and creating his own prison break was brusquely wiped out. He had to find another way.

He reached out to Draugr, explaining their problem. “I can't knock out the generator,” Rick burped.

The other man frowned. “You interrupted my break just to give me bad news?”

Shaking his head, Rick continued. “I m-mean I could, but that would require half an army.”

“But...?”

Rick burped again, “W-we could just hit the power lines that lead to the surveillance equipment. And the cells.”

Draugr seemingly cheered up at the thought. “And you can do that?”

Shrugging, “Sure.” He'd done it half a dozen times. “But I need a map, or- or a blueprint or whatever. I can't just go around randomly hacking into walls and cutting shit.”

“It might take some time,” the alien admitted.

“It's y-your schedule, not mine.”

“You're enjoying this,” Draugr muttered.

“So far I'm enjoying jack shit about this whole thing,” Rick argued, crossing his arms. “I want this over with.” The information he'd get had better be worth it. The point of asking Draugr and no one else was that Draugr was discrete, and that his many threads reached far. No one knew as much about other criminals as him. He could whip out a dossier with a flick of the wrist as if it had been laying on his desk the entire time. Rick didn't want the other Morty to know what he was up to. A security measure, a daft inoculation of distance that he would maintain, at least until he knew what he was guilty of.

A few days later Rick got a map, its paper worn soft with use. There were three main switches that needed to be hit, and another power circuit for the surveillance cameras. The one for the cameras were at the far back, in the middle of the guards' offices, near a maintenance room. That would be the hardest to get to, since you'd have to pass through three doors. Not to mention the actual guards. Interrupting the power supply for the cell doors was a little bit simpler, merely two doors plus guards. Nothing about it would be exactly easy but it was doable. Hearing a guard coming down the hallway, Rick quickly stuffed the map back under his pillow, feigning sleep.

* * *

 

J1407B

As he came to, Morty noticed there was another glass with liquid in it beside him on the floor. He rubbed at his eyes, sitting up. The backpack was where he'd left it. The back room was empty but he could hear chattering and the occasional squeak as other beings moved about in the shop. Morty brought the glass to his nose, sniffing it. The same as yesterday. He put the glass back down. Getting up slowly, he made sure not to step on any of the devices the floor was littered with. Having sneaked all the way to the doorway, he then slowly peeked out from behind it. There were at least five aliens there. Lapis was nowhere to be seen. Each of them seemed to be doing a different thing. A burly, green alien was tending to some sort of weapon, cleaning it with a dirty rag. One alien that looked like a floating tarp was flipping through folders on a holo-display with movements too fast for Morty to follow. Every now and then it shook its head, making the plastic tapestry rustle. It seemed to have legs though, as you could see something dark beneath the tables. Something touched Morty's shoulder and he jumped, gasping, then slammed into a desk, falling down. A keyboard that had been precariously placed on the edge of the desk fell down on him, finally freed by the impact. It bounced on his stomach, making him cry out and writhe on the floor. Alien laughter erupted and from above him, Lapis bared his teeth in a skin-curdling smile.

Morty blinked, swallowing.

“Are you alright?” Lapis asked, his head cocked to the side.

“I-I'm fine,” Morty managed, while slowly sitting up, grabbing at his side where the keyboard had hit him.

Offering a hand and then pulling Morty onto his feet, Lapis then absentmindedly wiped his hand on his trousers. Apparently, Morty was dirty. “Everyone, this is our employer. He might be small and awkward, but he has some great plans.”

The tarp-alien turned around. “He's three schmeckles tall,” it said with thinly veiled disbelief. “I can't believe you took this job, Lap.”

Lapis, still standing behind Morty, crossed his arms. “And if you were in charge we'd do nothing but drinking.”

The tarp shrugged.

“Either help or fuck off,” Lapis said, nodding at the exit.

The tarp flipped him off. “Eat a big bag of-”

Morty cleared his throat, still blushing. “E-excuse me, w-w-ould you mind-, um, I'd like to go to the restroom.”

When he came back the situation had calmed down a bit. The tarp was once again flipping through the folders, but slower, pondering. Lapis nodded at an empty chair next to his desk. Morty sat down. His stomach grumbled.

“Hungry, I'm guessing” the alien stated, and whipped out a container from a drawer. “Eat this.”

The metallic box seemed unopened, but Morty couldn't discern what was inside. It smelled faintly of ramen, but looked like small grains. “Um, could I borrow a spoon. Please?”

Sitting up, Lapis rummaged through another drawer and produced a grimy looking utensil which he then cleaned with a corner of his shirt, before handing it to Morty. Pointing across the room, he then introduced the others. “That's Metis. He's in charge of the weapons.”

The boy's face contorted. “Oh, um-”

Waving his hand, “They're just for show, we won't actually use them,” Lapis interjected. “Anyway, then there's Leda. He's our driver.” A small, gray alien with very long arms waved from behind another desk. “Sinope, who's in charge of acquisitions.” Another alien looked up from a metal tangle and briefly nodded. “And you've met my sister. Carme.”

At the sound of her name, the tarp-covered alien turned back from the flashing blue display. She pulled the tarp away from her front, revealing a face that was identical to Lapis'. Her eyes had an eerie, crepuscular ice blue color. “Nice to meet you, shorty. You're nothing like your grandpa.”

Looking down at his shoes, Morty then took a deep breath. Being nothing like Rick was something most people would consider a good thing. “That's what they say,” he stammered, and fiddled with the contents of his lunch box.

“Never mind her,” Lapis said, giving his sister a pointed look. “She's not been brought up right.”

“In that case neither have you.”

“Could you at least _try_ to be productive?”

Carme rubbed vigorously at the two pairs of eyes, then shivered slightly. She pulled the tarp-thing over her again. “It's too bright in your goddamn workshop.” Crossing her arms, she sank down on a chair beside the dirtiest table of them all, the see-through monitor still blinking above her head.

Lapis sighed, turning to Morty. “You can go outside if you'd like. Everyone knows you're with me.”

Morty perked up a bit at the thought of getting some fresh air.

“Just get back by nightfall,” the alien warned him.

Nodding eagerly, Morty practically fell out the door. He immediately had to shield his eyes from the sunlight. Three suns, all in an unforgiving white atomic shade, blared down on the buildings and the streets. He walked back to the fountain, which looked completely different during the day. Metallic orbs splattered water down into the crevices below, shifting it along in an intricate pattern. All around him were small shops, most of them hole-in-the-wall establishments. They sold fabrics and tires and electronic parts and new types of metals. The next street was filled with stone carvers. Small statues littered the pavement, all looking out vacantly across the hustle and bustle of the town. Come rain or come snow, they would remain the same. Indifferent.

After that street, Morty came to some sort of food district. Most of the shops sold what looked like fish and some kind of meat. Large piles of grains were stacked in a line, as triangles in unique colors. Small horse-like creatures pulled carts spilling over with thick bunches of leaves, the longest ones sweeping the ground behind them. Kids playing in the street froze to stand and ogle at him, at his odd clothes and appearance. They'd been pushing empty wheels around but now they stood still, regarding him breathlessly, trying not to miss a single thing. He waved at them.

“H-hello,” he said, but then lowered his hand. None of them waved back. They merely regarded him, wary of this clueless foreigner. After he'd put a safe distance behind them and himself, they resumed whatever game they'd been playing before, but now seemingly with more gusto, more verve. The shrill voices echoed at his backside as he made his way deeper into the labyrinth of shops and stalls.

Salesmen, grubby and worn out, slept on the benches outside their stores. Morty had left all of his money back at the workshop, but simply looking was enough. There was a potent smell lingering in the air. Reminiscent of incense but also of burnt meat, the aroma lay thick over the town. He strolled around aimlessly for an hour or two but then started aiming for the highest building. A church, or something like it. Navigation was difficult as the dome was hidden behind the other buildings most of the time, and he had to find a bit of unobstructed view of the city's silhouette to find his way again. As he reached the top of the hill, now sweating and slightly panting, the true size of the church became clear. Daunting, it almost threatened to swallow him whole. It loomed above him, a majestic crooning of architecture and grandiose ideas. Inside, it felt less threatening. The décor was muted. White walls, some abstract paintings. Plaques, thousands of names inscribed upon them. A sanctuary, of sorts.

 


	5. Thirteen Thirtyfive

PEGASI INTERSTELLAR PRISON

Rick was sitting atop his bed.

The morning alarm wouldn't go off for another forty minutes, but he had been unable to sleep. For months after his incarceration he'd been kept in the rows of isolation pods in the A-wing, but he'd eventually gotten placed in the more moderate C-wing. At least he got a bed. No one had told him the reason for the move, but there were hints. He was considered weak.

He was broken goods. A box of fine china that had been dropped five feet onto the concrete. In pieces. Useless.

They thought he was a brittle old man, losing his touch. Losing the chip on his shoulder. It was clear in the way that no one was overtly aggressive, in the way his biting remarks were met with scoffs and not anger. He was old, and the world acted like it. Acting as he'd lost the fire, the inferno that had made him feared, the unparalleled hell-raising that had laid governments flat by his feet. No one said as much, but by his peers his submission was a sign of weakness. He had picked apart whole platoons, had stood proudly beside Squanchy and Birdperson as one of the three creatures to be feared. His face plastered across the most wanted posters.

Rick Sanchez.

Weak.

If he hadn't been burning before he was certainly burning now.

And yet, he couldn't sleep. The sleeplessness the first months could be chalked up to withdrawal. Booze, k-lax, acid, whatever else he'd been able to get his hands on. When was the last time he'd been without stimulants for this long? Without liquor, he couldn't sleep, when he didn't sleep he became irritable. Heart palpitations, his hands shook. Ants, all over his body. His skin was on fire.

Eventually he'd learned how to sleep again as most people did. Lying down in a bed. Closing your eyes.

Sober.

But not this night. Not the night before something like this. He'd awoken at dawn; his cover on the floor, his pillow by his feet. He'd even made the bed before sitting down on it.

With his help, Draugr would kill someone. If he didn't help, their life would be spared. For the intended victim to even be in Pegasi, they had to be a bad person. Or at least a criminal one. Rick was a watershed. Whichever way he turned, there would be a disaster. Someone else's life, or his own future.

A Rick needs a Morty. He needed a Morty. And this Morty, whatever weird shit he'd done to get thrown in jail, it'd be nothing compared to rotting away in a small 4x4 cell. He'd help Draugr and he'd do it well enough to barter a favor in return. A big-ass dossier, and a small favor.

When the bell tolled, he got up. He got up because he always got up. This time as well as any. A weary man heading into a battle that had nothing to do with him. He dug out the old, manual wrist watch Draugr had gotten for him and strapped it tightly to his wrist. Throughout the morning routines he kept an eye on the time, making small adjustments in his schedule to make sure that he would be free at the correct moment.

Lunch was a dreadful affair. An half-hour ordeal that only served to upset Rick's nerves further. The wait was what killed. Breathing the same stale air as the thin pointer of the watch moved forward at an impossibly slow pace. Had it only been five minutes? Rick had some more of his tasteless goop, simply to busy his hands. Chewing on a markedly springy piece of an unknown protein, he then looked at the watch again. 13:35. Still.

To calm his nerves, he looked at Morty. The one by the other table. His back still small against the others. His hair was shorter now, freshly cut. What would become of him during the raid? He was stern-looking. A signal would come, a fight of some sorts. Someone, Draugr hadn't told him who, would start a row, and in the confusion Rick and Draugr would head to their separate starting points. Rick, along with one of Draugr's accomplices would breach the first door, fighting and incapacitating the guards, and then the door. First door was easy. Made to be accessible, it only had one lock. The guard's key pad would take care of that. The next issue would be a bigger one. To get to the system room, they'd have to go through a corridor, probably with several guards in it. It was far from ideal. And Rick would would have to dirty his hands.

-

Dirty his hands he did, as he breathlessly jammed his knuckles in an unsuspecting watch keeper's face. Below his fingers there was a crack as something broke and the uniformed man sunk down to the ground, his long limbs folding in on themselves. Shaking his hand, Rick then pushed on to his next intended victim, a brute-looking man who never missed a chance to kick the inmates around, earthly or not. Revenge came for him and it came fast as Rick's elbow hit him in the ear. He managed a groan and a measly attempt at raising his fists and Rick almost lowered his own in an attempt to level the playing field. There had only been two guards but Draugr's idiot, the one that Rick was dragging around for “protection”, had managed to get himself shot in the leg.

“G-great job,” Rick remarked while checking how many shots he had left in the whirring guard-issued space-mod MP-5. Only three. “I hope you've got more bullets than me.”

Groaning, the accomplice held tightly onto his leg, “Not in the mood for checking.”

Gritting his teeth, Rick lent forward, ripping off the unconscious guard's belt. He strapped it tightly around the wounded, brusquely bleeding leg, ignoring the cries of his collaborator. Rick took the offered gun. He shoved it in his back pocket, then lent a hand to get the alien on his feet. “If we stay here we'll get even more holes,” and grunted as he tugged the other upright.

“Not how I planned this thing going,” the alien confessed, already paling as the blue blood spilled onto the concrete floor.

“Mm,” Rick agreed, looking ahead at the illustrious second door. Behind that metal plate lay his true objective. They staggered forwards, Rick fumbling with the controls as his entire right side was weighed down from the wounded's pallid arms slung over his shoulder. Sitting the other down as gently as possible, Rick handed him back his gun, “I need you to cover me,” he explained, as he patted around in his pockets for the items he'd need.

Nodding, then grimacing, the alien peered out from the door opening. “No one's following us yet.”

Rick rushed on towards the big row of controls. Electronic ventilation, differential valves, air pressure tabs, energy measuring levers. The main switch was a few meters to the left, next to a big display of the planet they were on, marked with a tiny “you are here” dot that only served to confuse any viewers further. Stopping in front of the switches, Rick took a second to consider the labeling and the pipes leading in different directions. He placed one of the small black boxes by the right side next to a number display, steadily ticking higher. Doing some guesswork, he then put the matching box on the left side, close to a row of red buttons.

“They're coming-, _fuck_ ,” the purple alien swore from the door opening, closing three out of his four eyes and aiming, firing.

Rick hastily stepped back from the setup and turned to run to his unfortunate cohort. Slinging his arm over his shoulder, Rick heaved him upright, taking the gun from his bloodied hand.

“Got two of them,” the other said, while struggling to keep up with Rick's pace. Like some sort of four-legged space animal they limped heavily while leaning forward, pushing on towards the other door in the room, a heavy metal thing. It didn't have a lock, instead it relied on a latch mechanism. Rick virtually tipped the alien in over the high threshold and locked it again.

In the corridor they'd arrived through there were footsteps approaching, a steady thrumming of shoes. They stopped after a short moment, presumably to look at their colleague. “Wechs?” It came from the corridor. A faint groan was heard in return. Glancing at his wrist watch, Rick approached the door opening that led into the corridor. Twenty seconds left. After a quick look through his pockets, he settled for the emptied MP-5, throwing it in a high arch across the room. Slamming down onto the concrete floor, it then clattered along for a few meters.

It grew quiet in the corridor. Holding his breath, Rick could make out the faint, virtually inaudible footsteps of someone sneaking forwards. Now just to the left of the door opening, Rick tensed his muscles.

A thin youngster carefully looked into the room, and Rick grabbed him by his left hand, pulling him aside, disturbing the fragile, naive balance. Due to insecurity he was slow and Rick was quick, kneeing him in his torso as he was going down. Another kick to the ribs and he wailed but Rick wasn't there to hear it, having grabbed the guard's gun, covering his ears as best he could as he crisscrossed between the bodies, feeling the heat and the shock wave from the erupting bomb. He stumbled but pushed on, slowing down momentarily to get through the door to the other corridor. Fiddling impatiently with the key holster he'd taken from one of the guards, he then carefully swung the door open.

The barrel of a military-issue rifle stared back at him.

“Drop it,” a harsh voice ordered and Rick slowly put his gun onto the ground. In the ensuing silence, a crackling was heard, the ambiguous rattle of fire, devouring.

“Cuff him,” the gruff voice ordered, and one of the guard force dropped their rifle to tie Rick's arms behind his back. He was led out, a single white-haired dot in the mass of black-clad uniforms.

* * *

J1407B

In the storage room, Morty was searching for drinks. Lapis had requested that he brought another crate of the stuff into the workshop. “S-sure,” Morty had complied, and swallowed down some reluctance that got caught in his throat. The storage room was the room he'd spent the least amount of time in. During the days he'd spent with Lapis, it seemed no one did. Tip-toeing past an ominous brown cardboard box that ticked, Morty then crouched down by the shelf. The promised yellow crate was where Lapis had said it would be. Twelve bottles, all unopened. He pulled them off the shelf and nearly buckled under the weight but steadied himself.

His arms shook when he put them down by the desk.

“Thanks,” Lapis said, his voice muffled due to the thin metal piece he held between his lips. “Have some if you want.”

After thanking him and then retrieving the bottle opener, Morty then sat down on his assigned chair. Today, they were only three in there. Carme was working on some program of sorts, squinting at the display while scrolling and muttering to herself. “You shouldn't even work in the first place...”

Lapis ignored his sister's remarks while putting together some sort of battery. It was an ionized-giga... watt... thing. When Lapis explained it, Morty had nodded politely, humming at the right places.

Lapis was a criminal. And Morty was his accomplice. Once again, he'd found himself in an enterprise that operated entirely in the wrong. He was a cog in a machinery that shied away from law and order. It bled through in every safety measure, in every conversation where the police popped up.

Once a day, usually in the evening, and sometimes twice a day, a massive freight ship would pass by the planet. It pressed down on them, seemingly close enough to snag some of the power lines if they weren't careful. Every time Lapis would flip the main switch, killing all computer except the most important ones that ran on back-up power. During the few minutes the blackout lasted the workers would quiet down, stretch their backs, before sinking back into their chairs. There was no point in talking as the ship had engines the size of a small moon, blasting on full speed, blaring out all other noises. It was a wheezing, high-pitched siren, the sound a meteor makes before it hits, a million molecules being blown to smithereens. As it gradually passed, other noises took over. Crackling from the machines in the shop, the insistent rattling from Carme's clothes as she moved around the shop, getting new supplies or maps.

“They're quantums,” Lapis said as Morty looked quizzically at the computers. Seeing his blank face, Lapis continued, “They're using a ton of energy, which their scanners would pick up.”

“Oh,” Morty said, nodding quickly.

Sighing deeply, Carme put her head on her desk, the gray tarp pulled down to her shoulders. “I hate programming,” she moaned. She relaxed for a moment, then turned her attention to Morty. “Do you know how to code?”

“Uh, n-no,” he said, scratching the back of his head.

“You know leap technology?” She persisted.

“Uhm...”

“Distance calculation?”

“N-no, not really,” Morty stammered.

Rick usually did all that, with a drink in one hand and a stolen piece of technology in the other. The few times Morty had tried to help, Rick had handed him the glass.

“G-good idea, hold this, Mort-, Morty,” After looking in the rear-view mirror and cursing, the scientist had managed to type in their flight data, turning the steering wheel heavily, making the entire ship quake. “These-, these dudes are a real hassle, Morty,” Rick said, burping, steering the quickly accelerating ship with the steering wheel between his skinny knees. Fumbling with the clear blue casket, he then managed to get the gem out.

“This is what-, the thing we wanted, Morty.” He turned it over in his inebriated hands. “B-beautiful.” Looking up, briskly jeering to the right to avoid hitting another ship, he then tossed the small piece to his grandson. “Don't-, Morty, it's worth a hundred thousand dollars, don't lose it buddy.” It seemed to be so far away, those memories. Those times.

Carme looked at him expectantly. “R-Rick never really taught me-,” closing his mouth, then opening it again, “He never really taught me any of those things.”

Raising her eyebrows, Carme's tail whipped about on the floor. “What did he teach you then?”

“Um...” Morty's mind was blank.

Rolling her eyes, then getting back to the newly restarted computer, she took one final look at Morty before drawing the fabric back over her head to avoid the blinking, relighted ceiling lights. “Some assistant you are.”

Lapis threw down the dirty rag he'd been polishing the engine parts with and growled. “Maybe some people just like spending time with their family. You of all people should be able to figure that out, genius." 

Carme looked up to reply but nothing came.

“That's what I thought,” Lapis muttered, picking up the rag again, still polishing but now more vigorously, more hastily. He didn't look up as Carme left. Morty looked down on the desk, on his his hands. Cringing as the door was slammed.

“She hasn't visited our parents once since she moved out,” the alien said quietly. "Only calls to beg for money." 

 


End file.
